


Perfectionist

by JennaLee



Category: Rhett & Link
Genre: Angst, Body Dysmorphia, Bulimia, EDNOS, Eating Disorder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-09
Updated: 2016-02-20
Packaged: 2018-05-19 07:50:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5959420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JennaLee/pseuds/JennaLee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Link, obsessive-compulsive by nature, lives his life by sticking to a meticulous routine. When his world is shattered and his entire life derailed, he begins to lose control. Without a support system in place, Link turns to dangerous methods of maintaining order in his broken life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Distorted

**Author's Note:**

> Please read and heed the tags. Trigger warning for detailed depictions of body dysmorphia and eating disorders.

It’s freezing cold in his house. 

Link shivers beneath two blankets, dressed in a hoodie and sweatpants, curled up on the sofa in front of the dead black television set. He’s shut all the windows and turned up the thermostat and it’s not enough to bring life to his stiff aching limbs. Still, he can’t bring himself to care. Constant pains in his joints and bowels are a part of his life now. 

Rhett has an extra key to Link’s house that he hadn’t used in years. He uses it now and walks into the dull and dreary shell of a home that was once filled with warmth and love and laughter. Time seems to move erratically and Rhett is quiet in the kitchen for so long that Link begins to believe he’d imagined the big man’s entrance. Unfortunately, that’s not the case. Abruptly, Rhett begins to march across the hardwood floor, through the dining area, toward the living room where Link huddles in his misery. The man’s presence is daunting. Link hates him for not giving up already but yearns for his closeness all the same.

“Link,” the tall man calls softly. His voice sounds very far away or like he’s underwater.

“Yeah.” Link keeps staring at the television as if a program was playing. He doesn’t entirely realize that it’s been off all day.

Rhett sits down next to him. Link is grateful for his warmth. “Why aren’t you in bed?” Rhett asks, curving an arm around the massive lump of fabric surrounding Link in a safe cocoon.

Link doesn’t know how to answer with anything but the truth. “I felt too tired to get up the stairs.”

Silence from Rhett. Link slowly opens his eyes and sees that the man is crying. “Don’t,” he tries to say feebly. _I’m not worth that much._

“You were sick in the kitchen,” Rhett says hoarsely. “I cleaned it up, it was everywhere.”

Link hadn’t had the energy to clean up after himself. “Mm-hmm.” Should he say thank you? He doesn’t feel thankful.

“Was that the casserole Jessie brought?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you eat anything else all day?”

“No.”

“I can pick you up some groceries. I could cook something for you.” A desperate edge to Rhett’s voice. 

“No!” Link bursts out, terrified at the thought. He imagines Rhett returning borne aloft on a sea of bags, bags full of hamburger patties and buns and boxes of cookies and bricks of cheese and cartons of milk. A tidal wave that would grab Link and pull him under to drown. Rhett was so _stubborn_ , he wouldn’t take no for an answer. 

“Something healthy,” Rhett insists, forced calm failing to mask his increasing hysteria. “How about a nice omelette? And Jessie has this great recipe for buffalo cauliflower bites. They taste just like wings. The sauce is just flour, Frank’s Red Hot, onion powder, paprika, butter – ”

Rhett drones on as Link’s brain whirrs along. Flour has four hundred and fifty calories per cup. Butter is a little more than one hundred calories per tablespoon. Eggs are seventy calories each alone, more if you fry them. The numbers stack up and become a long string, infinite in length, tightening around Link’s throat, and Rhett is garrotting him.

“Oh, God, stop,” Link chokes, and to his credit Rhett does.

A long pause. And then: “Why are you doing this to yourself? What can I do?”

Rhett is being deliberately obtuse. Link sees himself in his mind, a bloated, hideously distorted figure with rolls of fat hanging over his crotch and four chins that fill the gap between his neck and jaw. Rhett is only pretending not to see because he’s being polite. He doesn’t want Link to be mad at him again, so he’s lying. What can he do? Nothing. 

“I’m fine. I just gotta get a hold of myself,” Link insists. “I need…I need to stay in control. I’m taking care of it. Don’t worry about me.”

When he opens his eyes Rhett’s face is damp with hastily blotted tears. Link doesn’t want to hug him but he lets himself be hugged. His protruding bones dig into Rhett’s soft skin.

The dreaded question rings through the air. “In the kitchen…did you do that on purpose?”

There’s no point. Rhett already knows.

**

Link Neal began to lose control of his life on the grey February morning when his wife drove off in the big orange-and-white truck, with half of the furnishings in the house and all of her clothes and personal things in neatly labelled boxes. Link watched her go, feeling more numb than upset and wondering what the hell had gone so wrong in his life for things to end up like this. 

Nothing ever quite seemed to function properly again.

Link lived his life in a series of meticulous routines and generally felt uneasy if he broke them. Christy had been a part of his life for sixteen long and mostly happy years, and his routines had formed around her presence. The children, too; he’d always wanted kids, and they had all arrived to mess with Link’s careful systems with a gleeful vengeance, but the love he had for them and the love they gave in return made it easy to adjust. Again, he rebuilt. Again, he formed deep grooves into his new routines like the trail of bare earth in a green field, worn through from so many footsteps. Losing them hurt in the ways one would expect it to hurt, but it also completely shattered his sense of order and direction and this time there was nobody there to help him sort things out again. Link felt like a train that had gotten derailed.

Maybe things would be better if he could foresee a future. If he could set goals and make plans to achieve them. But what did he want? Link had gone through life accumulating all the things that he wanted. Finishing school, getting a degree. Landing a job. Finding a wife. Children and a family. Step by step, he’d climbed the ladder leading to the world he’d wanted, and then he’d been pushed back to the ground, screaming and flailing. Now he lay on the bottom, broken and paralysed. There was no point in trying to climb the ladder again. 

He loses his keys and can’t find them for a whole day. He forgets to shower and doesn’t put out the trash at night. He buys heat-and-eat garlic bread and burns it to a charred black log in the oven. He can’t keep track of the time or the day of the week. He doesn’t set his alarm clock and wakes up to the phone ringing from a confused Rhett, waiting on the curb to be picked up for work. 

Link becomes panicky, fluttering from room to room like a bird stuck in a building, looking desperately for a way out. Sometimes he looks out the window and wonders why everything around him looks the same after the earth-shattering catastrophe. He sees happy couples, couples walking dogs, holding hands, pushing strollers. Happy little families. All the strings that tethered him down were being cut and he was going to fly off the earth entirely if he didn’t gain control. 

His cupboards were soon empty, and only sad half-full condiment bottles lived in the fridge. He’d always come home from work to a hot meal. Warmth and laughter, the smell of stew bubbling on the stove or bread baking in the oven. Now all there is cold and silence. Link doesn’t know how to cook. He’s actually getting tired of Mini-Wheats.

The silence in his own home drives Link crazy. One day it breaks him entirely and he flees to his car. He drives aimlessly until the growling of his stomach becomes unbearable and he pulls into In-n-Out to grab a double cheeseburger and animal fries. 

When he eats, his brain quiets and he goes numb. Each bite brings more bliss. The pain retreats, for now.

**

Flashback. Two years ago. 

_“It’s like I just bit an island,” Rhett declares._

_“Eurgh!” Link wrinkles up his face as he absorbs the taste of the seaweed-and-ice-cream sandwich. “It’s like I just bit a…a decomposing fish…with ice cream in the middle.”_

_Rhett huffs out a mild laugh with his mouth full. In the monitor Link can see a spot of ice cream on the corner of his friend’s mouth. The sight is comic and endearing, especially with Rhett wearing his silly pug-face T-shirt._

_Link makes faces for the camera. The fans think it’s funny and cute when Link has extreme reactions to weird food. It’s a trademark of their show – Link, the finicky eater who would put crayons and ice cream in his mouth but refuses to eat tomatoes._

Today. Link sits at his desk, tapping his foot along to the rhythm of a catchy song in his head. The memory of the rancid taste of dry-salty-chewy seaweed makes his tongue quiver as he suppresses a gag. _How do you not like seaweed?!_ baffled viewers asked. _Link doesn’t like anything!_ said one.

He can’t seem to stop thinking about food. At home he’d re-watched several of their famous Will It episodes, reliving the tastes and textures of all the strange things they’d eaten. Good and bad. Battling the burn of the deep-fried bean ball as he enjoyed the burst of flavour. Blindfolded, giggling, a sauce-covered wing thrust into his mouth on a stick. The dry spicy crunch of the tea pizza that Rhett had hated so much. The fishy-salty-musky cod milt dumpling and his pride at getting it down without retching.

Link was a picky eater as a child. He remembers his mother desperately trying to get him to try new things. He remembers shunning the food at church socials and friends’ houses and having his mother apologize for him. “He’s always finicky,” she’d say, and praise whatever dish Link had refused until their host smiled. Later as an adult he tried to be more adventurous and let Rhett and Christy coax him into eating things like liverwurst and mussels and sushi. Link put on a brave face for his kids to teach them to be more adventurous. 

Rhett always loved food. Everyone knew that. What they didn’t know was that Link did, too. Just because he didn’t like tomatoes and seafood and olives didn’t mean that food wasn’t a big part of his life. 

Peanut butter, soft and creamy, eaten fresh from the jar with a big spoon. The fresh crunch of a frosted Mini-Wheat right after he poured milk into the bowl. Apples so red and fresh and wholesome. A container of leftovers, meatloaf and potatoes, packed thoughtfully in his lunchbag by his wife after he’d complained about the monotonous cafeteria at IBM. Sunlight shining through a fresh pitcher of sweet tea, more brilliant than the yellow of the lemon Christy sliced on her cutting board. Swirling the wooden honey dipper in the amber jar. The very centre of a loaf of fresh cheese bread from the bakery down the street, still hot from the oven. Savoury buttery biscuits with gravy. Christy in the kitchen after her morning run in her yoga pants and a ponytail, peeling a banana to make smoothies. One for her, one for him. The smell of the back of her neck as he leaned in to kiss her there, excited by her sweat-damp skin and heaving chest.

Christy calls him once to let him know she’d arrived safely in North Carolina. Her voice is curt and clipped in the voicemail recording and it sounds like she’s reading from a script. She’d deliberately called when he was out at work to avoid having to speak to him directly. She doesn’t let the kids leave a message. Jade barks once in the background and is quickly hushed. Link sits down very hard and it takes him a while to get up again.

He buys a box of doughnuts and turns them into his personal gravity as he curls up on the couch. Their powdery surface is soft and sweet and the raspberry filling is the same colour as the dress his wife had worn to church the Sunday before that fateful day. And soon they’re gone, just like her.

**

Time doesn’t stop and life goes on. Day by day, Link manages.

Link wakes up on time for once and manages to shower and brush his teeth. His hair had grown out into a confused mix of old and new, but when he rakes gel-covered fingers through it until it swoops in a uniform way he thinks he looks pretty normal. Different somehow, and not just because of the hair, but acceptable. They were filming today and he has to look somewhat presentable. He has an outfit laid out ready to go and more shirts to change into at the studio.

Something is wrong. Something has been wrong for quite some time. His heart is racing and his fingers tremble. It was like being in a dream where you run and run but it’s like you’re waist-deep in molasses. The lack of control over this feeling frustrates Link, who values control to an extent considered obsessive by some. 

The jeans Christy had bought him last year from Old Navy are giving him a difficult time. For some reason he can’t get the button closed. He must have shrunk them in the dryer. _I should really learn how to do laundry,_ he thinks with mild panic. Can he do nothing right anymore? He’s running out of time, so he throws on a pair of sweatpants instead. They’re black and don’t look too sloppy. 

The plaid shirt is too tight in the armpits and it’s difficult to roll and cuff the sleeves. Sweat drips down the back of his neck and he’s scared. Angry and scared and frustrated. He finds a looser T-shirt and puts it on. He knows he looks too casual for work – like he’d just rolled out of bed and forgotten to put on real clothing. The reflection in the mirror is unkind and it nags at him even when he turns away. It’s more distracting than a toothache. 

_I’m losing my grip._

Link gets in his car quickly and squeezes the steering wheel much too hard. His turn off of his cul-de-sac is jerky and awkward and he reminds himself to relax as he makes the familiar short drive to Rhett’s house, where the tall man is waiting just outside his front door. 

Rhett gives him a strange look when he slides into the passenger seat, but all he says is, “Hey, buddy.”

“Hey.” Link steps on the gas, but makes a left turn at the end of Rhett’s street instead of going straight the way they always do.

“Where are we going?” Rhett asks with mild interest.

Link pushes his car slightly past the speed limit, desperate. “I need breakfast.”

“It’s already quarter after eight.”

“I’ll bring it to the studio to eat.”

“Oh. Okay.” Rhett steals glances at him whenever he thinks Link isn’t looking. “I’ll wait in the car?”

“Sure.”

In the little café Link buys hash browns, a bagel with cream cheese, a ham-egg-and-cheese breakfast sandwich, a yoghurt parfait, a buttermilk biscuit, a medium coffee and a bottle of orange juice. All to-go. “Can you add bacon to the sandwich?” he asks hopefully. They do, for fifty extra cents. Link smiles and meets the cashier’s eyes as she hands him his bag.

Back in the car, he puts the bag on his lap, and the warm weight feels like it’s anchoring him in place. He puts a hash brown in his mouth when he stops for a red light and relaxes his iron grip on the steering wheel. His shaky mind is consumed entirely by the food and he finally feels _stable._ Confidence creeps back in.

Rhett’s look of concern only deepens when Link offers him a tremulous smile.

**

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Rhett finally asks him after work the next week. Link had been late so often that Rhett started driving himself.

Link shrugs. “Why wouldn’t I be okay?”

Rhett shoves his hands in his pockets. “Do you want to come over for dinner? There’ll be salad, potatoes, maybe chicken.”

Link already had three McDonalds Big Macs for lunch, fries, a McFlurry and a soda. “No, thanks.”

“We should go out sometime. Just me and you. We haven’t really hung out outside of work in a long time. We’ll go mountain biking or camping.”

“That sounds fun, Rhett,” Link answers vaguely. He grips the leather arms of his desk chair and waits to be left alone so he could escape to his salvation.

“Do you want to come see a movie? I could come over, find something on Netflix. Jessie won’t mind if I come home late.”

“No.” Link’s voice is flat.

The tension in the air is loud and stiff. Rhett touches his shoulder gently. “You know you can always talk to me, right?”

“I know,” he says. Rhett won’t let him go, he can see it. He won’t stop until he’s got an answer. Link defies him: “I need to go to the bathroom.”

Rhett blows air hard out of his nose and bites his lower lip. “Okay.”

Link locks the door and pulls out the bag he’d brought from home. He has a slice of vanilla cake, so fluffy and soft. He’d devoured the rest of it the night before but managed to save just one piece. A PB&J in a little baggie, with bright violet grape Welch’s jam. A can of Sprite. Chocolate bars in brilliant shiny wrappers reminiscent of his youth. He consumes everything in great gasping gulps until he forgets that everybody hates him and he hears Rhett finally give up and leave the studio, driving home to his happy and whole family.

**

 _Link’s getting fat,_ the top comment on their latest episode says bluntly. It has one-hundred seventeen thumbs up and over a hundred replies. 

_He needs to lose weight, his face is ugly like that. He should try to grow his hair back out to hide the chin,_ says another.

_Omg someone needs to put the spoon down!_

_I wonder if he weighs more than Rhett?_

And the reply: _Rhett’s like over 200 pounds…give it time though lol._

Link shoves his hand to the bottom of the bag of Doritos and eats the last crumbs viciously, ignoring the streaks of salty tears on his face. When he throws the bag in the trash he immediately opens another. He can’t stop. He doesn’t want to stop. When he sits at his kitchen table with both hands covered in fake orange powdery cheese he doesn’t have to face the hurtful comments. Or anything else. 

The guilt follows as it always does. Link doesn’t want to change. Things have changed enough already.

The next day Rhett doesn’t say anything, but his eyes follow Link when he orders two muffins when they step out for a coffee break. Link eats both before Rhett’s coffee has cooled down enough for him to take a sip. They’re soft and moist and delicious, happy little pillows to cushion the cruel blows he’d received when he’d popped a button on his biggest pair of pants clean off when he’d gone to do them up. The piercing empathy in Rhett’s eyes stabs him deeply but he’s able to deflect it.

Link sees his reflection in the window of the shop. His face is puffy and his arms are soft and flabby. The strong line of his jaw is fading beneath the excess weight. He’s not a big person and isn’t meant to be and the excess weight floats awkwardly as if knowing it shouldn’t be there. It doesn’t look at all like when Rhett puts on a few pounds over the holidays and gets a cute little belly curve. It looks awful. 

A wave of self-loathing washes over him. He knows now why Rhett keeps inviting him out, to go to the gym and go for walks and bike around the city, why he keeps insisting he should come eat a good healthy meal that Jessie had made.

Even Rhett thinks he’s fat and ugly.

His control slips another notch and he feels like he’s falling, screaming all the way down with nobody to hear.

**

When he gets home, Link devours a mountain of pasta covered in Parmesan cheese to make himself feel better. His relief lasts until the pot is empty and his stomach feels hot and tight and horrible. 

After, he begins to cry. The sobs come in great hiccupping waves, snot clogging his nose and tears blurring his eyes, so over-the-top and hysterical that he almost wants to laugh at himself. _How pathetic you are._ Desperate, he opens the fridge to find something, anything, to take the pain away again. He has half a carton of milk and he begins to chug it so fast that it dribbles down his chin and down to his shirt collar, so tight against his fat neck. Disgusting, piggish. He drinks until he begins to gag, and then heave. 

He only just makes it to the toilet.

Wave after wave of nausea rolls over him and he pukes again and again, torrents of vomit flooding out his mouth and nose and mixing with his tears. He can’t stop and his knees hurt from the hard tiled bathroom floor. A hiccup brings another flood and he collapses onto his butt, head buried in the bowl.

When he’s done the toilet water is completely hidden by the layers of vomit. Link sees bits of chocolate chips from his muffin, whole noodles, streaks of tomato sauce, specks of Parmesan. His tears stop as he looks, and _sees_. It’s practically everything he’s eaten since lunchtime.

Gone, he thinks. It’s gone. It’s out of me.

Link opens his mouth and shoves two fingers down his throat, delighting when he sees a ball of grainy cakey muffin flee his body. He does it again, and a handful of pasta noodles comes out. Again, again, again, getting into a rhythm now. A rhythm that he’s controlling. He feels dizzy, almost drunk on his revelation.

 _Perfect,_ he thinks as he observes the results. He feels giddy and exalted. 

He flushes the toilet and climbs to his feet. He swipes his irritated eyes with toilet paper and marvels at how wonderfully hollow he feels inside. To clean up he rinses his mouth with water, then mouthwash. He starts up the shower and feels good enough to sing. 

That night he goes to bed with an emptied stomach and a sense of discovery.

Perfect.

**

It’s so _easy._

Link feels his self-worth returning a little. Weeks go by and he sticks by his system, perfects it in his obsessive way. It’s a new routine, a routine of self-improvement, a way of coping. Every time he misses his wife or reads a negative comment or puts on the trackpants he has to wear all the time since he’s too fat for his jeans, he goes to some fast-food restaurant and eats the pain away, then neatly removes it from his body with two fingers ticking his uvula as he bends over the toilet. It doesn’t take more than three strokes of the back of his tongue to get started and it just takes patience to finish. There’s pain, but Link is tough. The hurtful comments and his hideous reflection hurt worse.

When another Monday comes around he sucks in his gut, pulls his jeans up over his jeans, and manages to button them. It’s not comfortable but it’s progress. He sings loudly in his car along with the radio all the way to Rhett’s house. Rhett gets a brilliant smile when he slides in the passenger seat, and Link asks him how his weekend went.

Rhett, taken aback by Link’s sudden friendliness, gives him a glowing smile.

“You’re feeling better, I see,” Rhett says hopefully. His eyes say, _You’re looking a little less ugly._ Or so Link thinks.

“Definitely!” Link says brightly, pretending like his throat isn’t scratched raw and his stomach isn’t convulsing in agony. It was all part of the sacrifice. No pain, no gain, as they said.

He’s not sure why he needs to hide his backpack full of food from Rhett, but he does. It’s in the trunk. His tourniquet, his anchor. Link senses its presence and knows he doesn’t have to be afraid. He hates the food but loves that he’s become its master. He loves being in control.

**

He thinks about food a lot. How can he not? Billboards follow him relentlessly as he drives, advertising the new beefy meaty delicious bacon cheeseburger and old-fashioned milkshakes and a brand-new promotion for a meal deal that comes with fries and a large soft drink. There are cooking shows all over TV and commercials for Burger King and restaurants offering all-you-can-eat buffets for only eleven-ninety-nine Monday through Friday. With his family gone Link watches a lot of TV. He feels like he’s being chased by some great beast intent on ripping him apart. 

But he’s got the whip to control the beast and he’s becoming an expert at wielding it. 

Food was fun when he was a child. He remembers playing with gummi worms and receiving the first fresh slice of birthday cake every year. He remembers eating bacon bits at Rhett’s house and how the other boy had laughed. He remembers steaming bowls of thick chili, so savoury and delightful and full of meat. Thanksgiving dinners with his family, mounds of stuffing and buttery mashed potatoes and collard greens and an enormous turkey served with sweet cranberry sauce. His mother making him hot chocolate after he came back in from playing in the yard with his kids in North Carolina over the holidays, steam rising in drowsy spirals and marshmallows floating like little boats. He remembers the first time he’d kissed Christy and she’d tasted like cinnamon. Her hands had touched his face when he slipped his tongue into her mouth. He’d been slim and handsome then. A girl like that would have never looked twice at him if he was fat like he is now.

Link climbs into bed after a long day, his belly empty and his head ringing unpleasantly. The Wendy’s Baconator he’d gotten rid of had been very stubborn and he’d spent a long time in the bathroom. Everything seemed to be taking him a long time today. Even arranging the sheets over his body exhausted him. 

He lays back and thinks of the stink of fast food restaurants, grease and burnt oil, employees in ugly uniforms and plastic gloves putting together unhealthy artery-clogging meals and wrapping them in paper or placing them on a bright plastic tray. Link imagines all that lumpy fat and gristly meat choking his heart and forming thick gelatinous layers of fat over his organs. 

Food was like drowning. It dragged him down like dead weight, piled up at his gut and hips and thighs. It made him slow, chunky, clumsy. But Link was weak, and he couldn’t help but eat and eat and eat and _eat_ until he could barely move any more. Luckily he’s got his secret weapon. He can take the reins and stop himself from allowing the food to destroy him while using its healing power at the same time. He can put it in his body and take it out too. 

It’s difficult to sleep when his stomach roars so loudly, but Link is in control now. He grits his teeth and shouts at his own body. _You’re fat!_ he screams in his head. _You’re fat, you can’t have any more food! You’re soft and weak and useless!_ He knows he’s won when he feels sleep coming, another night without his body expanding from all the calories that would have been inside. By morning the ache of hunger will subside and a mug of plain tea or black coffee would quiet it for a few hours.

The gnawing feeling deep inside did serve some purpose. Suddenly Link reflects that today has been the first day he has not been keenly aware of his family’s absence. Thoughts of hunger and daydreams of food occupy his brain.

Distractions. Good distractions. Don’t lose focus.

He clutches the sheets with white knuckles until he falls into a restless and unhappy sleep.

**

Link buys a new belt for the jeans that Christy had bought him last year from Old Navy to keep them from falling off his hips. Two new button-down shirts a size smaller than he normally gets. He washes a load of his old shirts in searing hot water and dries them with extra heat, willing them to shrink. At work his chair feels hard against his back and butt and he can’t get comfortable. 

The delivery van stops outside his house and a man brings him the pizzas he’d ordered. They’re massive terrifying wheels of greasy bubbled cheese and thick red sauce the colour of blood. His arms can barely handle their weight. Link cries as he stuffs the first piece into his mouth, but by the sixth slice the tears stop and he feels wonderful. His body craves the carbs and the energy so badly.

The crust balls up into great sticky lumps that splash in the toilet when he retches them up. The surface of his puke glistens with the grease of the cheese and everything slides so nicely back out the way it came. Link uses the handle of his toothbrush to coax every mouthful up and out, feeling better with every heave. He could eat as much as he wanted, so he could stop being fat. Anything! He was in control. Or was he? 

He runs his fingers through the sludge, feeling bits of green pepper and pepperoni, mentally calculating the amount in the toilet and comparing it to the size of the pizzas he’d consumed. He repeats the action with the toothbrush until he’s satisfied with what he’s done.

At night his throat tastes salty, and it doesn’t go away when he drinks a glass of water. He coughs in his sleep and in the morning his pillowcase is smeared with blood. He tries to use the bathroom after coffee, but he can’t seem to go. 

This doesn’t faze him. He’s empty, light, free. Perfect.

**

It starts off as a normal day but Rhett is walking around looking haggard and anxious. Link keeps feeling eyes on the back of his head and turns quickly to see Rhett hurriedly look away. _What, is there something on my face?_

He inspects himself in the bathroom mirror, suddenly horrified that there’s a piece of dried vomit in his hair or blood visible on his teeth. The reflection that gazes back at him is not pretty, but there’s nothing suspect either.

Rhett corners him halfway through the work day when everyone is having lunch.

“Link?”

Link jerks out of his semi-doze. He’s often tired lately. “Yeah, Rhett?”

“Can we go outside to talk for a second?”

Terror makes his stomach plummet. “What? Why? We can talk here, can’t we?” 

“I just wanted to ask you something in private,” Rhett admits. “It’s not really appropriate for work. I was going to wait until the drive home, but I can’t.”

Link looks around the empty office pointedly. 

Rhett shakes his head. “Not here. Please.”

“Okay, okay.” The fresh air would help wake him up a bit anyway. Link abandons his computer and follows Rhett outside.

Rhett leans against the wall, the muscles in his arms tense and his brow heavily lined. His fingers touch the exposed brick wall as he opens and closes his mouth several times. He can’t seem to say what he wants to say.

“Nice day,” Link says. Every day is nice in California. It’s a redundant statement. “So what’s up?”

Rhett looks at him with eyes that turn sharp and inquisitive. He takes a deep breath. “Link, you’d tell me if you had any thoughts about…I don’t know, hurting yourself. Right?”

The question feels like a lightning bolt. Link nearly chokes on his own tongue. “What?”

Rhett squares his shoulders like he’s strengthening his resolve. “You would tell me if you were thinking about hurting yourself?”

“Hurting myself?”

“Don’t play dumb, man,” Rhett says quietly. “Not about this.”

“I’m not playing dumb. I just don’t know why you’d even ask such a thing.”

“You damn well know. You’re not yourself at all. Wait – ” Rhett holds up a hand as Link opens his mouth to reply. “Wait, Link, I know you’ve had good reason to be upset. I’m not blaming you for it. And you don’t have to talk to me every day if you don’t want to – although I’m ready to listen whenever you want. I just…I’ve had some morbid thoughts lately. Some bad feelings.”

“Bad feelings,” Link echoes. “Like what?”

“I don’t know yet. But I know _you_. And lately I’ve been getting nothing but alarm bells every time I think about how you’ve been acting. I’m worried about you.”

Link shuffles his feet. “I don’t know what to tell you. I’m not crazy or anything.”

“Of course not,” Rhett agrees far too quickly. “I just know that sometimes…sometimes you can make a situation a lot worse than it is, in your head. You can lose perspective. Like I said – I know you.”

“I’m fine. Of course I’m not being myself, Rhett. I lost – I lost _everything._ Excuse me if I’m not exactly the happiest person in the world right now.”

“You’re going through a hell of a lot,” Rhett tells him gently. “I just want you to take care of yourself. You’re alone too much and you’re working yourself too hard.”

“I said I’m fine,” Link tries to say haughtily, but his voice breaks and he drops his eyes.

Rhett hugs him suddenly. Link almost reels back in surprise but gains his balance. Clumsily, he hugs back. 

“Well I’m always here,” Rhett says into his hair. “You’re my best friend and I’m always gonna be here for you. I want you to know that if you need to talk, even if it’s in the middle of the night, all you gotta do is give me a call.”

His heart gives a guilty little lurch as he lies. “I will.”

“You’re a strong person. You can do this. I love you, Link.”

Link rolls his eyes but smiles all the same. “You’re gettin’ cheesy, Rhett.”

“Whatever, man, I gotta say it sometimes.”

“I know. I…I love you too, okay? And I don’t want you to worry about me. I’m not going to do anything crazy.”

Rhett nods and blinks away the bright gleam in his eyes. “I just needed to hear that. Thanks, man.”

 _Wait,_ Link wants to scream as Rhett steps away from the embrace. _Wait, stop, Rhett, I have…I have something to tell you. I do need somebody. Oh, God, I need help._

Link gets a hold of himself and says nothing. He doesn’t need help. He’s taking care of the problem on his own. 

“You okay, space case?” Rhett touches his lower back. His tone is light and teasing.

Link forces a wide smile. “’Course I am, Rhett.”

Rhett’s hand brushes against his and gives it a light squeeze.

Something twists in Link’s stomach. _Liar,_ his brain whispers.


	2. Downfall

It takes a special kind of mental gymnastics to maintain the precarious balance Link has achieved over the past few months.

Somehow, he stubbornly clings to the notion that what he’s doing is normal. Necessary, even. That he only does it very infrequently, anyway, and it shouldn’t be a problem at all. At the same time, he knows that he must keep everything a secret from everyone who cares about him. They’d think he was crazy. That he was gross, and weak, and stupid. Though he knows better, a part of him is conflicted over the nature of his actions; it was supposed to be a girl’s problem. Men dealt with divorce by drinking too much or partying too much or hooking up with someone else. Men were not supposed to plow through gallon tubs of ice cream and boxes of Pizza Pops, crying on the couch, washing everything down with Coke and feeling the waistband of their underwear growing inexorably tighter.

 _I can’t stand it when you cry like that._ A woman’s voice. His wife. Ex-wife. Sneering, crude, clipped and precise. _Man up! Don’t you have any shame? Look at yourself._

Link looks at himself a lot, but never when he’s crying. He looks at himself in the black screen of his cell phone, in the reflection of his computer monitor, and worst of all in his bathroom mirror after vomiting when his eyes are red and irritated and his nose is leaking mucus and his cheeks have flecks of splashed bile and toilet water all over from the force of his retching. He pinches his arms and stomach and thighs until they’re covered in bruises, testing the fat. What would Christy say if she saw him now? Pale from hiding from the world, chubby and round-faced as a little boy, flabby and weak in the limbs.

_From this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do us part…_

He wonders if she knows he’s fat. Maybe she’d watched Good Mythical Morning, perhaps in a rare nostalgic mood. Maybe she missed him. And maybe someone had told her that he’d gotten fat, and she had to have a look, just to laugh. He misses her, despite the fights and everything that’s happened. He misses her so much that it makes him want to keep crying. 

Instead, he gets the phone and calls. Instead of Christy he gets his mother-in-law. _Former mother-in-law._ Her manners and classic Southern hospitality prevent her from being outright rude, but Link can hear the hostility in her voice. He can only imagine what version of events she had heard. He doesn’t ask to speak to Christy, and she doesn’t seem surprised when he politely asks to speak to his kids instead.

If Link had thought talking to his family would cheer him, he was wrong. It only makes the ache in his heart stronger. He wants joint custody of the kids but Christy refuses to move back to California and Link can’t move back to North Carolina without a job. Perhaps he could if it wasn’t just his own career he’d have to give up – but Rhett co-owns Mythical Entertainment and couldn’t just continue on by himself. He’s unsure how hard he wants to fight. Since the kids had lived in California for so long, he could fight to have his state court resolve the matter. This would also highly inconvenience Christy, which Link’s vindictive side supports vehemently. In hindsight he shouldn’t have allowed her to take them without a fight at all. But what’s done is done and he doesn’t want to put his kids through hell just to get what he wants.

During the telephone conversation he’d somehow managed to eat half a loaf of French bread without thinking about it. Water will be necessary to help get the dry food back up. Link fills a glass absent-mindedly. Has he actually kept anything down today? _Yes,_ he thinks after a moment of reflection – the glass of orange juice for breakfast, and he’s glad he didn’t try to get _that_ out on an empty stomach. Pure acid. 

Before he heads into the bathroom, something makes him hesitate and reach for his phone. Hardly aware of what he’s doing, Link selects Rhett’s name from his recent contacts list. The big man’s voice echoes in his head. 

_If you need to talk…all you gotta do is gimme a call…_

Link paces by the foot of the stairs, wondering if he should. There are two voices in his head. One is yelling, _Tell him! Tell him everything. Tell him what you’re about to do and he’ll drop everything and come help you stop._

The other voice is more powerful, deeper and cruel. _Do you want Rhett to think you’re, fat and useless AND crazy? You want to be locked up in some mental institution? Why can’t you deal with your problems on your own? Besides, you shouldn’t stop. Half a loaf of bread? On top of dinner?_

_Tell him. You need him._

He even hits the green dial button but hangs up two seconds later before Rhett can answer. Horrified at himself, he throws his phone at the couch and runs upstairs. It’s like he doesn’t even know his own mind.

It’s not clear whether or not he understands the effects of what he’s been doing. _Fat, fat, fat,_ he chants to himself. _You’ve let yourself go, you’re disgusting, you can’t fit in your clothes._ Except his briefs refuse to cling to his waist and he has to poke new holes in his belt to keep his pants from falling down. This makes him look strange and dishevelled.

Link becomes an expert at slipping away like a cat after eating at work, realizing that simply missing lunch earned him pointed questions from Rhett and attracted the attention of their employees. However, the feeling of sitting in a desk chair with his stomach full is utterly repulsive. He begins having his regular midday meal as conspicuously as possible while sneaking in junk food to hide around the studio. Like a squirrel storing nuts for the winter, Link’s manic side goes overboard and soon there was enough food to last a year, all hidden in places he’s sure nobody will look in. Boxes of crackers, cans of Pringles, beef jerky, bags of nuts.

Link puts forkfuls of food into his mouth, chewing vigorously, trying not to shovel it in too fast, mindful of every swallow.

Maybe he’s imagining things, but it seems like Rhett is eating with him a lot more often. And watching much too closely.

**

Sunday is grocery day. He doesn’t go to church any more. He feels like a fool, sitting alone amongst the sea of functional families, every single person in the building aware of what must have happened.

Link walks around the store for fifteen minutes and already he’s out of breath and his legs are cramping. He leans over his shopping cart and lets it bear some of his weight. It must be because he’s so fat. He can’t even walk anymore. Soon he’ll need to ride one of those Rascal scooters for disabled people. People will laugh. He’ll break the chair he sits in on Good Mythical Morning and the people will flock to the comments section to leave their mockery. Link trembles, his breath catching as his heart flutters wildly in his chest. A wave of dizziness forces him to come to a halt in front of the baked goods section. The feeling of the world spinning like he’s drunk is familiar now. Whenever he stands up or gets up from bed, he feels like keeling over.

It’s difficult to be here, surrounded by food. Terrifying and exhilarating. His control is slipping away. The shelves loomed over him like massive cliffs. Ahead he sees a wall of buns and bagels and rolls and sticks, in neat little bags, the bread ranging from corpse-white to shit brown. Link’s stomach turns, hating himself for wanting everything so badly.

He’ll be back in control soon. With vicious determination, he gets what he needs. 

Milk, so cool and refreshing as it flowed out into the toilet, soothing the burn. Ice cream did the same trick. Frozen burritos, bags and bags of potato chips, pasta. No hot sauce; it burned his nose so badly once as he threw up his fried eggs and bacon that he’d been unable to finish ridding himself of all of it. The rest of the day he’d been forced to drink nothing but water to make up for it, and he’d cried all night. Peanut butter isn’t good either; it sticks in his throat and prevents the rest of his food from coming out properly. Instant mashed potatoes are easy and so is mac n’ cheese.

The cart is very heavy. Link takes several deep breaths and puts his arms to the task of pushing it to the closest check-out. The cashier smiles as he arranges his items neatly on the conveyor belt. The air floats with the light background noise of a pop song he recognizes, maybe Taylor Swift, and he drifts on it.

“And how will you be paying today, sir?”

He looks at his total, displayed in big bold type at the bottom of the screen, and sees a myriad of numbers that don’t make sense. They blur and move together. Link sucks in another deep breath as he recognizes the feeling of being close to fainting. At the same time a cramp hits, twisting deep into his stomach and down towards his groin. Agony. The handle of the cart is the only thing holding him up as he bears through it.

The cashier notices something is amiss. “Sir?” she asks, hesitant, glancing anxiously around her as if searching for help. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Link manages to grit out. “I’m – I’m fine, really, it just – I’ve got an ulcer,” he lies. “It hurts sometimes.”

“Are you driving? I could get somebody to help you to your car.” At her imploring glance to a door marked _Staff Only_ , a skinny freckled youth half-rises from where he’d been leaning dreamily against a stack of crates.

“No, no,” Link says quickly, reddening. _Am I too fat to load my own groceries into my car, or what?_ “I’ve got it. Thanks. I have credit,” he announces, brandishing his card.

He brings home his bounty. The pains pass and he feels a little better. As he drives he thinks dreamily of biscuits and gravy, okra and aloe juice, cookies and chips. 

His heart soars when he bends over the sink and studies the Tupperware container he’s thrown up into. He can lift it in the air and heft the weight. All that disgusting slop would have been in his body, sticking to his bones and puffing up his face, but it’s gone. He flushes it down the toilet with pride and goes out for a run until his legs are limp noodles and he can barely breathe from exertion. Sweat pours from him. More weight, gone. 

The run may have been a bad idea. Some warning bells in his mind tell him that he needs _something_. Sometimes food has nutrients. Wheatgrass, raw kale, carrots. He sometimes eats cherry tomatoes to punish himself for wanting to eat so badly all the time. Fighting the gag reflex and getting it down gives him a feeling of accomplishment. Today he selects a pomegranate and carefully removes the seeds to put in a glass bowl. They look like rubies, so beautiful and costly. They shimmer invitingly like a pool of water in a scorched desert.

When he begins to eat, the sugar destroys him and he sobs as he crams a handful of the fleshy seeds into his mouth. It feels so good, like a drug, a killer drug like crystal meth. Ruining all his hard work. Sugar is bad for you. Link wonders how many calories are in a pomegranate and Googles the question. When he gets the answer he retches, and only a thin trickle of crimson comes out. He doesn’t know if it’s blood or pomegranate juice and doesn’t care.

**

At work he can’t shake the nagging suspicion that everyone is going out of their way to be particularly nice to him.

Alex and Eddie and Chase replace their usual good-natured banter and occasional ribbing with a respectful distance and awkward warmth. Stevie hangs around his office a lot and doesn’t tease him like she used to. He comes upon Jen eating a fig bar and she trips over her tongue asking him if he’d like one. She looks weirdly relieved when he says yes. Link tucks it in his pocket, “For later,” he assures her, not wanting anyone to see him eat. Wherever Link goes, his employees spring to accommodate him, and there’s a little pause whenever he stands up and walks away. And if they come into a room and find Rhett and Link together, they leave quickly as if not to disturb the duo – a drastic change from the way things used to be, when they all acted like one big family.

Rhett is making a determined effort to spend as much time with him as possible. Link avoids his continued invitations and suggestions for weekend activities and waits for the man to become engrossed in his work before making his way to the small bathroom in the studio. His toothbrush is there and it does not arouse suspicion; Link brushes his teeth at work sometimes, after all. 

The handle pops neatly down his throat until his body spasms and lunch rises up with an acidic vengeance. First comes a gooey white ball; bread looks like wadded-up gum after it’s been eaten and does not taste offensive. Down goes the toothbrush, now up comes a fleshy segment that puzzles Link for a while until he realizes what it is; Rhett had pressed him to try a chocolate-dipped strawberry that morning. It was funny how long things could hang around. Mini-Wheats come next, two or three pieces stuck together in a ball that looks kind of like dead grass clippings. Three more retches bring nothing but thin bile. But Link can feel something in there, something big, something he’ll have to work for to get it out. 

“Link?” A faint voice calls.

Link’s eyes bulge a little as the mound travels slowly up his throat, feeling cakey and solid; the entire fig bar Jen had given him has cemented itself together. For a second he can’t breathe, but jubilation overcomes even terror. With a deep hacking noise he gets the awful thing out, a marbled chunk of brown-and-purple that slides heavily to the bottom of the bowl. 

“Link!”

Knocking at the door. _Oh, hell._ Link spits out what’s left in his mouth and wipes his lips. “Yeah?” he calls back. “I’m a little busy, Rhett.” _Make a joke, ease the suspicion._ “Only room for one in here, man.”

“You’ve been in there for a while, buddy. Just checking up on you.”

“Is it a race?” Link tries a chuckle.

A pause. “Just making sure you’re okay, that’s all. Almost done?”

“Little personal, don’t you think?” 

A longer pause. Rhett isn’t leaving. Link’s frustration grows into panic. _Please, please, leave me alone. I gotta finish. I gotta get it out. Please, just GO!_

“I don’t need an audience,” he calls, and his voice cracks a little near the end.

“Okay,” Rhett finally says in defeat, but he doesn’t go far. Link can hear his footsteps and knows Rhett’s maybe fifteen feet away, sitting in the armchair, his face set and serious. Link’s not sure if he can be quiet enough to finish.

 _It’s okay, you got a lot out,_ he assures himself, watching the contents of his stomach swirl away when he flushes. But he still feels angry enough for his hands to shake when he washes them thoroughly in the sink.

“Well?” he demands of Rhett when he emerges. “What was so important that you couldn’t wait ten minutes downstairs?” Link tries to sound lightly exasperated, not angry. He doesn’t want to fight with his friend.

Rhett looks at him for a long time, but ultimately shakes his head and touches Link’s shoulder apologetically. “Sorry, brother,” he says gruffly. “Guess I just got paranoid.”

“It’s okay,” Link says, but it’s not okay. The time window of when he could remove the food from his stomach was longer than he would have guessed – two hours could pass without much of the food being digested, by the looks of it – but still too short to make it until he got home. Like it or not, half of his binge would be processed mercilessly by his body and turned into fat. 

“Rhett?”

“Yeah?”

“Paranoid of what?”

“I’m not sure,” Rhett says too quickly, and the spots of colour on the apples of his cheeks lets Link know that his deception efforts will have to improve. Rhett’s figuring it out, maybe without fully realizing it yet. Some part of Rhett knows.

The tall man hugs Link impulsively before they leave work. Link feels Rhett’s hand high up on his back, touching the jut of his shoulder blade inconspicuously and then moving down to touch the strangely prominent lines of his ribs. When they pull apart, Rhett looks like he’s aged five years in five seconds, but when he goes to speak Link turns and practically jumps into his car.

At home, he swallows against the pain in his throat and considers the sandwich he’d just eaten. He’d already had a banana and a small bowl of cereal today. The sandwich was probably too much. His obsessive brain opens its file cabinets and pulls out a folder with the newer GMM episodes inside. Link, plump and jowly, sloppy in his athletic wear, next to slender Rhett. The comments section still running rampant with discussion about Link’s weight. The monster in his head growls warningly.

Better to not risk it. 

For the fifth time that day Link bends over the toilet and gets to work.

**

Rhett presses him over and over to come for dinner, and finally Link accepts if only to shut him up. He hates the concern in Rhett’s eyes and knows deep down that he hates the fact that it’s all his fault that Rhett has to waste energy on his useless fat friend. 

Rhett picks him up promptly at five-thirty on Saturday and fills the short car ride with over-the-top declarations of how great it is to hang out with him, how much he’s missed this, how cool it would be if this were a weekly event – all that nonsense that makes Link shift awkwardly and try not to look too discouraging. He loves Rhett, of course. It’s just difficult to love anyone when you don’t like yourself one bit.

The kids are glad to see him. Jessie’s face is shocked for a heartbeat when she comes over to hug him, but she hides it well. She shares a glance with Rhett that Link pretends not to see. Link knows it’s because she’s felt how fat he is and is amazed. Her arms had encircled him, felt the jiggle of his back fat and the rolls on his stomach. 

“It’s good to see you again,” she tells him in a falsely bright voice. “How have you been?”

“I’m good,” Link says listlessly, not really sure what to talk about when he doesn’t have a family any more. What stories does he have, what can he share? He looks at Jessie and feels like an idiot. She’s probably wondering why Rhett had bothered to bring his lumpy friend into this nice perfect house.

“Well, I hope you’re hungry!” she beams, and then looks hurriedly at Rhett. Her cheeks turn faintly pink. 

Rhett comes to stand beside Link. He puts his big hand on Link’s shoulder. “Dinner smells great, Jess. Link, do you want to come sit down in the living room until we eat? Or do you want to go outside for a bit?”

“Whatever you want, Rhett.” Link isn’t sure what to do. He makes his legs move and his mouth open and close like a ventriloquist’s dummy, letting his rehearsed lines spill out. 

He floats through the house in a daze, trying valiantly to converse with the kids and making an effort to share in Rhett and Jessie’s obvious love and contentment. The cruel part of his brain focuses on his friend’s interactions with his wife and files away all the little details of they way they act towards one another. He pulls up his mental charts on his own failed marriage for comparison. If he could figure out exactly where he went wrong, maybe he could fix his mistake. Clearly, he was not as good of a person as Rhett was, and fat to boot. Somehow Link’s obsession warps the timeline of his life and he sometimes lets himself believe Christy left because of his increasing weight. He lingers near the kitchen, watching Rhett from afar longingly.

“Link, hon?” Jessie touches his shoulder gently. “Do you want to come sit down in the kitchen and have a glass of water?”

“Okay,” Link quickly agrees, relieved. Water is nice on his permanently sore throat. Jessie is kind and nurturing and she seems to have an excellent sense of Link’s moods. She puts a glass of water with ice cubes on the table and doesn’t pressure him to speak. She’s turned her music down, too, silently inviting conversation if Link should choose to initiate it. He doesn’t. He watches her move easily around the large airy kitchen, cute and slim in her black dress and burgundy cardigan. Carefree and confident as she handles the food. Link feels a deep jolt of jealousy and is surprised by it. To free himself of it he closes his eyes and leans back in his chair to daydream.

The blissful quiet lasts until Rhett’s kids come barrelling in, hyper and laughing, with Rhett in tow. 

“There you are!” Rhett’s voice is overly hearty. “I didn’t see where you’d gone, Link.” He grins at Link and steps past him to kiss Jessie on the cheek.

 _Here I am,_ Link chews his ragged lower lip. _Maybe you were hoping I just went home._

He glances at the pots on the stove. There’s so much _food._ Can’t they see it’s too much food? Or is it not enough for a fat pig like himself? The potato salad has bits of bacon mixed in and the red skins of the potatoes look like the tiny streaks of blood Link sometimes sees in his puke. Rhett is absorbed in talking to Shepherd. Locke is helping his mother stir something as she opens the oven and removes an enormous baking dish full of veggies and what looks like salmon with lemon slices arranged on top.

Jessie is talking about the food as she’s cooking. Rhett cheerfully discusses how delicious the glaze on the salmon is going to be. Link feels like a giant target with bullets shooting at him from all sides. He wants to stuff his fingers in his ears. He wants to grab the food from the baking tray uncaring of his seared and scalded fingers and cram it all down his throat. He wants to flip the tray into the trash and hurl the pot of potatoes into the yard. Accustomed to its punishment, his throat begins to clench and release, not quite gagging. A small burp bubbles up and brings the taste of bile.

“You okay, Link?”

He doesn’t even know who’s asking. “Sure I am.” _Fine and dandy, that’s me. The fat useless divorcee._

Dinner is served and Link is desperate for his bliss. The floor doesn’t feel real beneath his feet. Every fibre of his being cries out for the food. When did he eat last? Time is so strange, especially when you went to sleep at odd hours and either couldn’t doze off at all or passed out for ten hours straight.

“Do you want to say grace, Link?” someone asks. 

Not Rhett or Jessie. Locke. The question is baffling. The concept of saying grace isn’t a part of his life and hasn’t been for a long time. Link stares at his napkin, blinking stupidly, until the child seems frightened and glances quickly at his mother, who just as quickly says, “Oh Locke, I’ll do it, Link’s not feeling so well right now.”

“Oh. I can tell. He doesn’t look so good.”

“Locke!” Jessie swiftly cuts in, looking embarrassed. “That’s not a nice thing to say to somebody, especially not our dinner guest.”

This is the part where Link should say something like _It’s okay_ or _I know you didn’t mean it._ Because he knows it’s true. Rhett’s a good dad and Locke is a great kid. But the food, all he can think about is the food. The food will soothe him, fill his emptiness and protect him from the depression. With or without his consent, his body will betray him. 

“Link,” Rhett murmurs, nudging him with a foot beneath the table. Everyone has joined hands. Rhett’s big palm is to his right and to his left sits Shepherd’s pudgy little hand, reaching expectantly. Link lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding and completes the circle.

He doesn’t hear the words Jessie offers to the Lord. The food is all he can think about, right there in front of him. The battle is about to begin. War horns would be more suitable than Jessie’s calm voice. Link feels like everyone is looking at him and he can’t stop, he can’t help but eat and eat and eat.

Seven minutes later and he’s devoured everything Jessie had put on his plate. When he looks up, he realizes that everyone else is barely half finished, and Rhett’s looking at him with something akin to horror. There’s potato salad on his shirt and he’s shaking so hard that he’s making the table tremble. Someone’s fork rattles noisily upon their plate. 

Oh, God, all that food is inside him. In his stomach, turning into rolls of fat, trapped inside him!

 _Freak,_ Link thinks. _Fat freak._

Imaginary fat spills over his waistband, explodes from the arm-holes of his shirt. The food inside him is growing, morphing him into something unrecognizable, swelling and swelling him like a balloon, a carnival side-show monster.

Link registers another awful feeling – 

_they’re LOOKING at me_ –

– and he shoves his chair back from the table with a grinding screech and bolts.

He runs to the furthest bathroom, eyes blurred with tears. He trips on a stair and falls hard, banging his knee with an explosion of noise that surely shakes the whole house. The pain doesn’t hit him right away but he limps a little as he makes it into the bathroom. He’s gotten so used to using his toothbrush that he wants to cry when he realizes he’s going to have to do it the old way, with his fingers. He only barely manages to twist the little doorknob lock into the vertical position before falling into an awkward squat, head bent over the porcelain bowl.

He begins. It’s not pretty. _There’s so much, how did I fit so much in there?_ The potatoes come up first – it’s strange but there’s never any _order_ in what comes up no matter how it goes in – follows by chunks of salmon peppered with pieces of green asparagus and lettuce. Next comes the corn, the yellow kernels looking practically the same as they did on the plate. The mucus lining of his stomach is like egg white on his fingers and he doesn’t stop to wipe them, allowing his own disgust at the texture to add to the intensity of his heaves. With every mouthful that comes out Link feels his body shrinking, like letting air out of a balloon. _Good. Good. Don’t stop._

Link’s hit his stride and doesn’t have to push at his throat so hard now. The smell of his own vomit induces him to retch more and he keeps his face close to the toilet bowl, encouraging the reaction to make more and more food come out.

Inevitably, someone knocks. “Link? Are you okay?” 

Female. Not Rhett. Jessie. 

“I think I’ve got the flu or somethin’, Jessie,” Link manages to say in a tone not entirely unlike his normal voice. He hugs the cold toilet bowl and turns his face to the side, giving himself a break. Though he’s good at being quiet, he doesn’t want Jessie to hear any splashes or muffled gags. “It wasn’t your cooking or anything. It tasted great.” His voice is flat and he hopes she doesn’t take it as sarcasm.

“I’ll get Rhett to drive you home when you come out,” she says with sympathy. “Can I make you some soup, or dry toast?”

Link thinks about drowning in a great bowl of soup, the salty liquid blinding him like tears and crawling down his throat, up his nose, into his ears. It makes him shudder. “I’ll be fine. Thank you.”

Heavier footsteps approach. A whispered argument breaks out as Link stares at the mound of vomit in the toilet, hoping to God that they would just leave him alone. Then Rhett’s voice through the door, more firm than his wife’s: “Link, you have to get some food down. You can’t just not eat.”

“I did eat,” Link snaps in his rough voice. His nose always dripped like a faucet when he puked and his eyes teared from the strain.

“Yeah. You ate like you haven’t seen food in a year. What the hell, Link? What have you been doing to yourself? I won’t let you go home and starve. You hear me?” He knocks again. “Hey!” he shouts more loudly when Link doesn’t answer.

Fear makes him feel wobbly like a newborn fawn. Rhett’s anger hits him hard in the gut. _You made a scene in front of his family. In front of his kids. Of course he’s angry._ At some point he has to come out and face them. But first they have to leave him alone and let him finish. He has to finish. It’s his system. 

“Rhett,” Jessie urges, trying to be quiet. “Rhett, don’t pressure him. Lower your voice.”

“Don’t pressure him? How am I pressuring him?”

“Yelling isn’t going to help!”

“What am I supposed to do, Jess?! If you’re such an expert…”

Jessie’s voice lowers even further and Link can’t hear everything she says. “…serious…talk to someone, or get him to….don’t make him feel like it’s his fault…”

“I know it’s serious. Did you see him?!”

Link takes this time to get the last bits of dinner out of his stomach. He’s lucky. They don’t seem to notice the quiet splashing noises. Triumphantly, he flushes the toilet and stands up to wash his hands. There are fresh scratches from his teeth that sting like crazy when he uses the antibacterial soap beside the sink. The knowledge of perfectionism achieved bolsters Link and gives him the strength to open the door.

The whispers stop when Link steps out of the bathroom. Rhett’s eyes are red like he’d been crying. Jessie looks fearful and upset. Link feels guilty and hopes they forgive each other. Unlike him and Christy, Rhett and Jessie rarely, if ever, argue.

“Link,” Rhett starts slowly. “Listen to me. We – we love you. We both care about you. We want to help – ”

Link cuts this short before it gets out of hand. “Just take me home, Rhett. Please.”

Rhett is hurt, but he struggles not to show it. “We want to help you stop – ”

“I don’t feel good,” Link elaborates. “I don’t need help, just a ride home.”

“Maybe you’d like Rhett to spend the night over there?” Jessie suggests hopefully.

“No, thanks. Take me home.”

Rhett breaks in. “Look, we can’t just – We can’t just not talk about this.” He spreads his hands in a gesture of hopelessness.

“Can’t just talk about what?” Link asks. “I don’t know what the big deal is. I have a stomach bug and I want to go home.”

“A stomach bug,” Rhett repeats skeptically.

“What, am I not allowed to be sick?”

“Why are you lying to me?” the tall man shouts suddenly. Jessie puts a hand on his arm and he clamps his lips shut.

“Why are you _interrogating_ me?” Link retorts, hackles rising. He feels himself take a step back, cringing despite knowing Rhett wouldn’t hurt him.

“Link, listen, I’m worried that you’re going to do something – something bad. I really, really don’t want you to be alone right now. I don’t think it’s a good idea.” Rhett reaches for Link’s hand but Link takes another step back. “Please,” Rhett implores. “ _Please_ , Link. I want to come with you.”

Jessie looks down, her face carefully controlled, as if she feels she shouldn’t be listening.

Link smiles faintly. He’s not going to do anything. He’s empty and the thing is done. “What am I gonna do that’s so bad?” he asks like it’s a joke. “I’ve got a big night of nothing planned. I need some sleep. To cure the stomach bug.”

“Maybe some _food_ would make you feel better.”

It’s a struggle to maintain his composure. “I. Did. Eat,” he bites out. “I don’t want more food. I don’t want company. I don’t need _you_ to babysit me. I don’t know why you’d want to. You’re being stupid.”

“I think you do need someone with you,” Rhett counters.

“For what?” Link crosses his arms over his chest.

He has a feeling Rhett _knows_ but can’t say it. “Don’t go,” he begs instead. “Link…”

“Maybe I’ll call a cab,” Link cuts him off, and turns away.

Rhett flushes and catches him by the wrist. “Don’t do that. I’ll drive you. Let’s not fight. Not now.”

“I’m not fighting. Who’s fighting?” Link shrugs, his face blank. Exhaustion helps the brief wave of anger wash over him and when it’s gone he feels like a statue. He reminds himself that it’s okay, it’s done, it’s out of him, and he’s cleaned the smell of acid from his hands. An extraordinarily calm feeling floods his body. All he needs is another glass of ice water to cool his throat. 

Rhett huffs but doesn’t argue. “Fine. Let’s go.”

Link nods stiffly at Jessie. “Thanks for dinner,” he says robotically.

“Any time, Link,” she says, so softly that he barely heard. “Please come again soon.”

Link follows Rhett out the front door, grateful for the fresh air and the pleasant hollow feeling inside of him where the dinner was. Rhett keeps looking over at him like he wants to speak, but turns back to the road every time he starts to open his mouth.

Before he gets out again in front of his own house, Rhett grabs his arm. “Link, promise me something.”

“What?”

“Eat something before you go to bed,” Rhett insists.

Rhett must be angry. He’s mocking him. Telling the fat freak to eat more. A surge of anger fills him suddenly.

“Fuck off, Rhett,” Link throws back, and slams the car door.

Rhett calls after him but Link refuses to listen.

**

Link feels tired again. He skips work on Monday through Wednesday, sticking to his flu story. The entire crew will be talking about it; Link _never_ takes time off. The deception is becoming much harder to maintain and Link knows it’s only a matter of time before his secret is out.

Rhett calls him five times. Link lets it go to voicemail and listens later. They usually don’t leave messages – if for some reason they miss a call from the other, they’ll just text – but Rhett leaves three in a row.

_Hey, Link, it’s me. How are you feeling? I’m really sorry for the other day. Can I stop by later? Call me back when you get this._

Link presses delete. On to the next message.

 _Hey, buddy, sorry to bug you again. I, uh. I guess maybe you put your phone on silent._ A pause. _I missed you a lot this week. Everyone did. Things aren’t the same when you’re not there. You’re important. To all of us._ An awkward chuckle. _I hope you knew that already. So, uh. Do you want to come for a drive or something? We could go down by the beach and just hang out._ Another pause, longer and more awkward than ever. _Call me back soon, okay?_

Delete. 

The last message drags on a little longer and Rhett breaks a little near the end.

_Link, I…I know things haven’t been going great for you and I…I’m scared. I’m worried about why you’re not answering my calls. You know I love you, right buddy? You can talk to me. I can help you. Let me help you, Link, for god’s sake. Call me back. I’m going to drop by for a bit after dinner. Around six o’clock, okay?_

Link deletes that one too and goes out for food instead. Rhett had said he might drop by at six, so he leaves the house at quarter-two and plans to return closer to seven. Rhett would see that his car was gone and drive on by.

He comes back flushed and exhilarated, with no food but a bagful of vitamins, diuretics, laxatives, and a new toothbrush with a thicker, blunter and softer handle, the better to poke at the back of his throat without irritating the existing tears and scratches. 

Three new messages and a bunch of texts await him. Link deletes them without looking, turns off the phone and climbs wearily into bed, head spinning, jubilant and ashamed. 


	3. Terminus

Link goes from bad to worse. 

He shows up to the studio on Thursday and Friday of that week but tells Rhett that he isn’t feeling up to filming the planned four episodes. He doesn’t apologize for ignoring the man’s calls and texts and Rhett never confronts him about it. Instead, Rhett is nothing but smiles and patience, light touches on the shoulder and oddly delivered jokes that sound forced and rehearsed. Their employees give him distance and not one person speaks up to complain about his laziness. The isolation is what he wants. _Isn’t it?_

 _Let’s not fight. Please,_ Rhett had said that awful weekend, the bags under his eyes more pronounced than ever. Jessie had scolded him for yelling at Link through the bathroom door, though in the past the couple had always been careful to keep any arguments private. This mothering behaviour and sympathy makes Link feel limp and pathetic. Maybe an argument would be better. Maybe if Rhett would just hit him, he could feel justified in moping around the office with a long face, putting everyone else’s jobs on hold while he dealt with his own lack of control.

What began as a perfect system is falling into disarray. No matter how much food Link gets rid of, there always seems to be more, and he feels like he’s expanding to the size of a baby whale. Sometimes he dreams of blowing up like a balloon, or sludging along on a mountainous pile of his own fat like Jabba the Hutt without the tail. Perfection is always dangling just out of reach. He must constantly revise his meticulous routine to keep up with his seemingly endless downward spiral.

Link pours many cups of black coffee at work. Sugar and cream are forbidden luxuries. Empty calories. It gives him the energy his deadened body and mind need and is excellent at deterring overeating. Conscious of suspicious eyes, he doesn’t get rid of food in the studio and therefore must go without. For deception’s sake Link pretends to be eating items from his lunch bag whenever someone glances over to check on him. Bravely, he puts the food into his mouth, chews it into mush, and spits it into napkins when the coast is clear. His treacherous tongue wants nothing more than to swallow. Then Rhett looks at the trashcan by his desk for longer than he’s comfortable with, and Link begins flushing the napkin balls down the toilet. 

Globs of half-chewed muffin and potato chips stick to his teeth after spitting, and these he fetches with his tongue and swallows furtively as though committing a crime. The presence of so many people unnerves him and he constantly feels claustrophobic. His world is shrinking. Or maybe he just won’t stop growing.

When he goes home for the weekend he decides that he can’t stand it anymore and ends up taking the next two weeks off of work. Link had expected dismay or even anger when he’d proposed the idea to Rhett late on Sunday evening. Their backlog of pre-filmed episodes would run out and they’d have to declare an unscheduled break. Jobs would be on the line. Nervous, he closes his eyes as the phone rings in his ear, waiting for Rhett to pick up.

“Hey!” Rhett answers the phone in a hearty, booming voice. “What’s up, Link?”

“Not a lot.” The words hurt. He’d had a rough night. Five times he’d caved and five times he’d gone into the bathroom, full of rage and self-hatred, to fix his fuck-up. “I was wonderin’ if maybe we could take a little break.”

“From the show?” Rhett asks, hesitant. 

“Yeah, I’m not really feeling good. I might need a few days off again.”

“Sure, sure!” Rhett agrees quickly. “You work yourself too hard, Link, you deserve a little time to yourself!”

“I might need a week.”

“Link, you take off all the time you need. Don’t worry! Are you going to, uh, go to a doctor?” Rhett sounds nervous. Why is he nervous? “You know…to get…help?”

“Yeah,” Link lies impulsively. “That’s right.”

“That’s great, Link!” Rhett exhales hard and lets out a little exclamation that could be a relieved laugh or sob. “Oh, Link, that’s great. Do you want me to come over after work on Monday and check in on you?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Oh,” Rhett hesitates again. 

Link quickly injects some feeling into his voice. “Sorry,” he mumbles.

“No, no, it’s okay!” The heartiness is back. Everyone knows Link is weak and must not be treated too roughly. “You get some sleep tonight and I’ll talk to you soon, okay? Take care of yourself.”

“Sure. Bye, Rhett.” 

Link turns off his phone and doesn’t speak to Rhett, or anyone else, for the entire two weeks. 

Day and night become one. Sleep is elusive. Link loses himself in the cruel passage of time, fighting hard, eating erratically. He uses his free time to perfect his system even further until he has it down to a terrifying exact science. Sometimes he wakes up in the middle of the night gasping for breath and imagines that he’s choking on food that won’t go in or come up. Sometimes he wakes up and reaches for Christy, for comfort, and it hurts all over again when he realizes she’s not there. More than once he stumbles from his room in the dark, not sure if he’s asleep or awake, and gorges himself on whatever is in the fridge until his body stops shaking. Later, he wakes up on the bathroom floor with vomit in his hair and on his shirt, not knowing if he’s been there for five minutes or five hours. The scariest part of this is that he has no way to know how much he ate and how much he got rid of. 

Keeping track is very important for his system, because his memory seems to be full of holes lately. When he’s not half-asleep he starts a meal with something he can easily see within his vomit later, in order to determine when he’s gotten out everything he eats on top of that marker food. Something bright-coloured and impossible to miss. The feeling he gets when he sees the pop of colour come out on top of the pile of garbage expelled from his stomach is absolutely incredible.

Link is getting better and better at this but he knows it will never be good enough – that _he_ will never be good enough. 

He can only bend so far before he breaks.

**

On a sunny Monday morning, he wakes up and convinces himself that he feels good. The sun is shining through the gap in his bedroom curtains and Link flings them open with a flourish. He’s going to go to work today.

His pills wait for him on the nightstand. He has diuretics to help shed water weight and laxatives to help get everything out. He has vitamins and herbal treatments for melting fat and boosting metabolism. Herbal treatments are healthy, he tells himself as he swallows them carefully. How many calories are in a pill?

He has everything under control. He can have two boiled eggs (140 calories) for breakfast and remove them in a few heaves. Black coffee, as always. He gets a little better at practicing restraint and he doesn’t have to go to McDonalds for a second breakfast anymore. If he gets desperate he still has the food hidden around the studio – soda crackers and a small tin of fudge, granola bars under the couch cushions and pudding cups under the bathroom sink. 

The night before he’d texted Rhett and told him that he’d pick him up for work today. Link hopes he won’t regret that decision, that things aren’t awkward between them now. He hasn’t seen Rhett since that Friday so long ago. Fifteen days ago? Sixteen? 

Despite their altercation, Link misses his friend greatly. Rhett came to the door and knocked every day, tried to use his spare key and cursed when the door opened just enough to yank the chain lock taut. His yells and pleads echoed through Link’s house and Link had pressed his hands over his ears until they stopped. Jessie had come too, stopping by twice with containers of food. Like Rhett, she knocked and knocked and called his name but Link ignored her until she set the food down on the porch and left him alone. Absently, he had put the containers in the freezer where they’ll keep until he breaks like the weakling he is.

The first thrums of a headache give him pause. Hopefully he might be coming down with something. If he got sick, he wouldn’t eat so much. The headache worsens when he showers and it seems as if his vision is blurring at the edges even with his glasses on. Well, maybe it’s a migraine – after all, he did have chronic headaches in his youth. When he turns the shower off he notices with annoyance the water pooled in the tub. The drain is clogged with hair. Link still has Drano under the sink from the last time this happened, and as he towels off he pours the rest of the bottle down the shower drain. 

Brushing his hair makes his scalp burn and his skull ring with pain. When he curses and throws his comb in the sink, a big lock of dark hair comes with it. Link looks at it blankly, not registering. Neither does he register his sickly translucent yellowed skin or the way his eyes bulge from his hollow face.

His gut suddenly aches with a knifelike pain, and he tries to use the bathroom but can’t. It’s difficult to know if Link realizes the damage he’s done to his body with laxatives, which, when overused, can cause the opposite effect. Combined with dehydration caused by sweating too much during his frenetic rounds of pushups and squats and throwing up the liquid in his body, it’s no surprise that Link is so constipated.

Rhett’s texted him back approximately thirty times. _No, let me come get you. Don’t come to work. We need to talk._

_Don’t drive. I’ll pick you up. I just want to sit down and chat for a while._

_Are you mad at me?_

_Link? Hey. Are you driving right now? If not, call me._

Link ignores this smoothly. He’s got a job to do and so does Rhett. 

He feels great. It’s a beautiful day and his stomach is empty and maybe, just maybe, he’s not as fat as he was. He gets in his car and drives through the pounding in his head, breathing hard, sweaty hands slipping on the wheel.

Rhett takes one look at him and his eyes go wide. “You’re not going to work today,” he says flatly. “You shouldn’t be driving. Come inside.”

“I’m okay, I just have a headache. I’ll have some aspirin or Tylenol.”

“You are _not_ okay. I don’t even know if you should take any medication. Please, come inside.”

“Let’s stop at the drug store,” Link suggests. “Or Wal-Mart.” He’s read about aspirin being helpful in weight loss, especially when coupled with caffeine and less than six hours of sleep.

“I don’t think it’s safe. I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

Link tries to laugh but produces more of a dry bark. “You’re crazy, man. Come on, we can’t miss work.”

“Just come inside, Link, please. I’ll tell Jess to keep the kids occupied upstairs. It’ll be just me and you.”

“I don’t want to, Rhett.”

“Then I’m driving you home.”

“How will you get back to your place?” Link wishes Rhett would stop looking at him like he’s crazy.

“I’m staying with you,” Rhett replies decisively. “From now on until you’re – ”

“Until I’m what?” Link demands. _Until I’m not fat anymore?_

Rhett doesn’t answer that. “I’m not going to leave you alone again. I won’t let you lock yourself in your house. I’m going to stop this.”

“That’s silly, Rhett, it’s just a headache.” 

“It’s not just a fucking headache and you know it!” Rhett shouts suddenly, making Link jerk with alarm and wince as he smashes his elbow into the window.

“Can you not yell at me, you psycho?” Link snaps, curling in on himself. “It might be a migraine. I used to have chronic headaches. Remember? Remember, back in college? It’s nothing to worry about.”

Rhett grabs Link’s wrist. “Cut the bullshit, Link, or I swear – ”

Link bristles. “What are you gonna do?”

For one awful second Link is sure Rhett is going to haul him inside like a sack of potatoes. He can see that Rhett wants to. The man’s green eyes are flaming bright with – not anger, Link realizes. With terror. He’s afraid to push Link too far.

He releases Link’s arm and slowly relaxes, though his jaw remains clenched tight. “Did you even get help? You said…you said you were going to see somebody and get help.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You lied to me.”

“To get you off my case, yeah.”

Rhett takes several deep, even breaths. “Get out and let me drive.”

“Fine.” Link can’t see any way around it. He gets out of the car and switches places with Rhett. Outside the window, the trees along the boulevard shimmer as if in a haze of heat. Link blinks and it doesn’t go away. Another stab of pain through his gut makes his breath catch. Rhett stares at him, concerned.

“I’m fine,” Link insists. He swallows hard, then shivers. The road before them wavers and undulates like a snake and he closes his eyes. It’s making him nauseous. He drifts off, semi-conscious, and awakens to find Rhett staring at him. They’re parked in front of Link’s house.

“Why are we back at my house?” Link asks with mild confusion. Every word seems to take a great effort. His head swims and his eyes struggle to focus.

“I don’t even know if you should be here,” Rhett mutters, seemingly to himself. “I should be bringing you to a doctor.”

“I don’t need a doctor.” Panic floods him. 

“You do,” Rhett snaps, “but for now we’re going to eat something and you’re going to have a nap, and I’m going to stay and make sure you’re okay.’

“No.” Link manages to open the door and find his feet. The pain and pressure in his head build, unbearable. “I don’t need a nap. I just…need some air.”

“Link…” Rhett hurries to follow him. “Wait for me.”

It happens so fast. The sun is too bright and the air too thin. Link walks too fast, reels, takes another step, and overbalances. _Just a migraine, just a little flu or something, man up, Neal._ When he tries to right himself he falls heavily to his knees. His head spins and spins and hurts worse until things start to break apart and everything around him glows in a halo of sinister light.

He hears Rhett scream his name before everything goes white.

**

When he comes to, he’s immediately aware of the needle taped to the back of his hand. The bed he’s lying on is all clean white, the blanket drawn up to his waist crisp and sterile. It takes almost a full five minutes for Link’s sludgy brain to realize where he is, and when he does he wants to cry. They’re pumping his veins full of something, maybe calories, he doesn’t know. What had Rhett told them? Anger flares bright in his aching head but immediately fades. _Nobody knows. Nobody could know. I’ve got this under control._ The familiar safe gnawing at his stomach lets him know that his body is still valiantly fighting its own fat. Concentrating on that feeling is like drinking from a glass of superior wine. Link closes his eyes again and floats on it.

He wonders how much the nurses have seen. What they have concluded. He hates the thought of hands on him in his sleep. Undressing him, putting him in this stupid gown with his fat legs showing, only a thin blanket to keep him warm. A prisoner. What kind of food would they make him eat here?

A noise intrudes. Footsteps, low voices. Link can recognize Rhett’s voice right away. The doorknob turns, and Link pretends to be asleep. Dealing with Rhett would require more energy than he could muster.

Rhett approaches his bedside with uneven steps. “Hey,” he says softly. “Hey, buddy. Hey, Link. Are you awake?”

Link doesn’t move. He breathes as evenly as he can. If he opens his eyes and sees Rhett’s warm and caring face he might open his stupid mouth and start telling his friend everything. The truth is hard and Link doesn’t want to face it.

Rhett’s hand settles on top of Link’s IV-free one. “I’m sorry I yelled at you in the car,” he tells Link in a ragged voice. “I’m really sorry. I wish I could take it back. What’s happening to you isn’t your fault. It might be my fault for not doing anything about it. But I just don’t know what to do. I feel so helpless, Link. I don’t know what I can do. Can I make them hold you here? I don’t know. I…I just want my friend back. I’m scared for you. Really fucking scared.”

Link hears Rhett make shuddery little noises, like he’s crying. He prays that he doesn’t start crying too. Hearing Rhett curse makes his palms sweat with fear. The big man doesn’t do it often.

“When I saw you fall I felt – I don’t even know how I felt. Horrified. And guilty. I shouldn’t have tried to bring you home. I should have driven straight here. I shouldn’t have let you try to walk on your own when you looked as if you could barely sit up straight…well, I guess it doesn’t matter now, does it? I fucked up and I can only thank God that you didn’t hit your head or hurt yourself worse when you fell.”

Link absorbs this and feels guilty. Guilty for being mad at Rhett, for lying to him, for snapping at him after the dinner at his place weeks ago. Guilty for making Rhett feel so low, as low as Link himself. It puzzles him that Rhett hasn’t just given up yet. What’s so valuable about himself? How could Rhett cry over him? He wasn’t worth that.

“I want to make you get help,” Rhett continues after a long moment. “Even if you hate me for it. I told the nurse about what happened and what I think has been going on. You’re gonna be so mad at me for that. I know it. I couldn’t help it.”

Uncomfortable, eternal silence. Then:

“I could hit Christy for leaving you,” Rhett blurts suddenly in a voice Link’s never heard before. “God help me for saying so. I tried to stay out of it. Me and Jessie both. You’ve been closemouthed about the whole thing and so have I. But…Christ!”

A new voice: “Sir? Visiting hours are over. He needs rest.”

Rhett’s hand strokes his arm. “I don’t want to leave you, but they’re making me go soon. I’ll come see you tomorrow. I promise. Hopefully you’re awake. We need to talk.”

 _Tomorrow? I can’t be here tomorrow. And I don’t want to talk._ A chilling thought seizes him. _Can they make me stay?_

But no, that’s against the law, isn’t it? At worst he could be held against his will for seventy-two hours under that 5150 law, if a doctor decided it was necessary. That thought was a sobering one.

“I love you,” Rhett tells him as he stands up. The comfort of his hand is gone too suddenly. “Get some rest, buddy, you deserve it.”

He leaves slowly and Link is alone once more.

**

“Where are my clothes?” Link demands, uncharacteristically belligerent in the face of the doctor. She has silvery hair and laugh lines around the eyes that gaze at him with too much concern. “I want to leave.”

“Mr. Neal, I strongly advise you to stay and allow us to treat you,” the doctor tells him frankly. 

“I don’t need your help. I want to leave.” 

It was around nine in the morning and Link had managed to get a few hours of sleep in a long and restless night. He refused the breakfast they’d brought. Rubbery eggs and toast with too much butter, a glass of orange juice too acidic for his throat. They’d offered other options. A disgusting chalky Ensure shake. A banana and a vanilla yoghurt. No and no.

“Mr. Neal, I understand that you must be dealing with some heavy personal problems. I’m sorry to make you feel angry, but I only want to make sure you realize – ” 

Link’s chest feels tight. He doesn’t want to talk about this with a stranger. “Are you a doctor or a shrink?” he interrupts rudely.

She plows on, unaffected by his hostility. “You are severely underweight with a body mass index of around 16.2. This is generally considered a very high-risk situation. It’s a miracle that something worse hasn’t happened to you. What occurred yesterday was most likely a sudden drop in blood pressure that deprived your brain of its blood supply. You were also dangerously dehydrated.”

“I just want to go home. I don’t care.”

“If you don’t put some weight on, you’re going to be at risk for kidney failure, heart problems, chronic hypotension and – ”

“I said I don’t care.” 

“Mr. Neal, we could refer you to a highly-rated facility where they treat men and women with – ”

“Show me where my clothes are, or I’ll get up and ask someone else.”

“Sir – ”

“You can’t hold me against my will,” Link repeats, and the doctor gives up.

His clothes are in a closet nearby, in a plastic bin with his name on it. His wallet is there too, conscientiously tucked into his jeans. His socks are neatly rolled into his shoes. They pull the dividing curtain across to give him some privacy as he rips off the stupid medical gown and puts his old clothes on. Both of his knees are bandaged and the rough material of his jeans rubs against the gauze irritatingly. 

Link declines the pamphlets the nurse tries to give him ( _Eating Disorders in Males: You are Not Alone!_ and _Green Valley Recovery Center_ , subtext _State-of-the art CARF accredited inpatient facility located on 75 acres of picturesque scenery in the heart of California._ ) He takes a taxi home and is too exhausted to notice the startled look the cabbie gives him when he climbs in. 

The first thing he does upon entering his house is turn off his phone before Rhett tries to call him. With Rhett’s presence comes intense guilt and self-loathing. Because the man has the spare key, Link puts the chain lock on his door. Then he takes a hot shower. His house is freezing and his bony little body shivers uncontrollably even in the scalding water.

Where the IV needle was is splotched purple. So are his thighs and calves, abnormally numerous bruises as vivid as the circles beneath Link’s sunken eyes.

Later, Link tosses and turns in bed, buried alive in blankets and clothes. The bed creaks because he’s fat. His heart hurts, because he’s fat. Tears prickle at his eyes because of the mess he’s made of himself, and they go away whenever he reminds himself of his system, of his control.

His cupboards are full of food but sometimes Link is sure he’s going to pass out during the process of getting rid of it. What would it be like to fall and crack his head, to be found dead and covered in puke, face-down in his own toilet? The fat freak, drowned in toilet water. What a headline. Would anyone be sorry? Not Christy. Not his former fans. Maybe Rhett, but maybe he’d be relieved in a way, too. Link was a burden.

 _I want my life back,_ he thinks, and then, foolishly: _I want Rhett._ Christy would think that Link was weak and stupid if she saw him now. She always hated him for being weak. A husband was supposed to be strong. Rhett didn’t care either way, he just loved Link. Funny, how he only realized how much Rhett cared now that it was too late. Funny that he resented Rhett for caring so much. He didn’t know why. _I should have asked him to stay with me. He’d fix me. Somehow…_

His hairbrush is matted with clumps of dark brown hair and his throat is always raw and bleeding. 

Something is happening. The cataclysm is close, a tornado of destruction headed straight for him. Link knows he can’t outrun it but he tries anyway.

**

Days turn into weeks and before he knows it it’s been a whole month since the hospital. A whole month since he’s seen Rhett, or anyone else besides the gas station attendant and the grocery store cashiers.

Everyone walks on eggshells around him when he leaves his house, which isn’t often. The cashiers at Whole Foods won’t look him in the eye, and children stare at him when he passes. 

Link Neal, one hundred and seventeen pounds on a six-foot frame, is frightening to see up close.

One day he forgets the chain lock on the door after coming back from groceries with a Uber driver. He is increasingly absent-minded and no longer trusts himself to drive. When Rhett comes, there’s no energy left in Link’s body to yell at him to leave. He drifts in and out, half-aware, absorbing Rhett’s warmth and absurdly grateful for the embrace. It feels like Rhett has been with him for hours. It feels like Rhett is too good to be true, like maybe this is a dream. Maybe this is the only version of heaven he’ll ever get to have. And he doesn’t deserve it. 

A few minutes ago, or a few hours, Rhett had asked him something that Link could not answer. Rhett had stayed anyway, held him for a while, and let him rest while he cleaned up Link’s dishevelled house. But when Link showed signs of waking from his doze, he had returned to ask it again.

“In the kitchen…” Rhett starts, quiet. “Did you do that on purpose?”

Link doesn’t look at him but answers honestly, shocking himself. “Yes.”

He hears Rhett swallow. “You’ve been doing that for a while.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“How long?” Rhett asks, and when Link doesn’t answer, he presses: “ _How long_?”

“Since I got f – ” Link has come to hate the word _fat_. It haunts his every moment. “Since I got a divorce,” he amends, which isn’t entirely accurate.

“What else have you been doing?”

“What do you mean?” 

“How else have you been hurting yourself?”

“Not hurting,” Link closes his eyes against a familiar wave of lightheadedness. “Fixing.”

“Fixing what?” Rhett asks, baffled. “How can you think – how can you say – ”

Link huffs out a dry laugh that makes the dizziness worse.

“You’re scaring me,” Rhett says, his voice pitched higher than normal. His hands slip beneath the blanket and take Link’s arm. Link makes no move to help nor hinder, laying passive like a chubby porcelain doll. Rhett pushes up his sleeve to look at his wrists, first one, and then the other. His sigh of relief is so loud that Link cracks a smile.

“The sight of blood makes me faint, Rhett,” he says dryly. “I don’t think you need to worry about that. I wouldn’t be very good at it.”

Rhett winces and sets Link’s arms down as gently as if the man were made of glass. “That’s not funny. At all.”

“Okay.”

“How much do you weigh, Link?”

“I don’t know,” Link sucks in his breath, terrified of the thought. 

“How do you not know?”

Link cannot honestly recall what numbers he sees on the scale. He only knows that they must keep counting down. “I don’t remember. A lot, probably?”

“You think you’re fat.”

“I am fat, Rhett.” It’s the truth, so why does it feel like a lie? Link clutches at Rhett’s arm, trying to sort out his whirring thoughts. “Everyone knows I’m fat.”

“Everyone knows you’re…” Rhett shakes his head, his mouth slightly open. 

“Everyone…all the comments, all the people....you and Jessie…” Coherency is difficult. Link waves a hand to convey his meaning. “All of you…know…”

“Is there still a scale in your bathroom right now?”

“Yes…”

“If I carry you up the stairs, will you see how much you weigh?”

 _Oh, God._ “I…oh, gosh, Rhett, okay.” If he could stand to have anyone see something so humiliating, it was his best friend. “I don’t want to look, though.” _How is he going to carry me?_

Rhett surprises him by lifting his body easily even with his bad back. The blankets fall away and Link shivers with cold. “How are you so warm?” he asks Rhett.

“Because it’s like eighty degrees in here, Link. It’s beautiful outside. Sunny and hot.”

“Oh.” That doesn’t make sense, but Link doesn’t question it.

“Can you stand?”

Link doesn’t know. Rhett sets him on the floor and he doesn’t keel over. He picks up his feet and steps on the scale with a feeling of dread pooling in his stomach.

Rhett leans over his shoulder to look at the digital numbers displayed in unforgiving brilliant red.

“Link…” Rhett’s voice is full of pain. “Oh, jesus, Link.”

Link looks down and reads the number clearly for the first time in months. He begins to shake all over and nearly trips over his feet stepping off the scale. He falls into Rhett’s arms.

“It’s not right,” Link chokes. “I’m going crazy or something, it’s not right. I’m fat, I’m…One-seventeen, that can’t be right, that can’t…It’s wrong, you know it’s wrong, the scale is broken…”

“You’re – ” Rhett’s hands touch his ribs, his bony arms, his jutting collarbones. “The numbers aren’t wrong, Link. You need to eat or you’re going to die.” 

“I do eat.”

“Yeah, and then you puke it back up.”

Link trembles, sobs once, and then lets his tears just go like a dam breaking. Rhett hugs him and even presses a kiss to his forehead. He runs fingers through Link’s hair and gasps when a clump falls out in his hand.

“You need to go back to the hospital,” Rhett whispers, staring at the hair in his hand in horror. “You have to. Right now.”

“I don’t want to. Please. Don’t make me. You can’t make me…”

“Look at yourself, Link!”

Link looks in the hateful mirror. 

His face is angular and sharp, cheekbones sticking out and the line of his jaw over-pronounced. The neck is skinny and his eyes seem too big for his face. His chest is a mess of jagged bony lines and his legs are thin as matchsticks. For the first time, he really _sees_. He sees the truth that he’s always known, deep down. 

After his binging ages ago, he’d gained maybe fifteen pounds, tops. And then, in madness and anguish, he’d proceeded to lose at least fifty. More than fifty. An insane, unreal amount of weight. 

“Oh, Rhett,” Link’s voice trembles. “I…I don’t know…how I let this happen…”

“I don’t know how I let this happen to you either, but I know that I’m not going to stand here and let you kill yourself,” Rhett says with decisiveness, despite the terror in his voice. “I’m going to bring you to the hospital. Once we’re sure you’re not in any immediate danger, we’re going to ask for a referral and get you hooked up with the best damn rehab centre in California. ”

“I’m scared, Rhett.” Link tightens his hold on his friend, which gives him the courage to make a confession. “I’m scared of what’s happening to me. I don’t want you to leave. I don’t want you to leave like she did, I don’t want to be alone. I hate how I am when I’m alone.”

“I’ll stay with you, okay?” Rhett steadies him, helps him down the stairs, opens the front door to reveal the world beyond, all brilliant sun-kissed emerald grass and the sound of birds, reminiscent of all the happy and pleasant things Link has denied himself. “You don’t have to be alone any more. I’m here for you. And I’m not going anywhere. I love you.”

And Link believes him. The tears dry up and he forgets to be scared.

The storm is passing. 

Rhett takes his hand and helps him to the car. He opens the passenger door and Link knows that there’s no going back now, that there will be no easy access to the destructive haven he’s built for himself. He could turn away now, run back to his house and lock the door with the chain. He could lie in bed and not eat until he died and didn’t have to face the pain he dealt with every day. It would be the easy way out. The coward’s way out.

“Do you need to bring anything with you?” Rhett asks.

Link shakes his head mutely, terrified, holding back from the decision like a nervous horse balking at the gate.

“Are you ready?”

 _I don’t know._ What a loaded question. Was he ready to face the horrors of his own mind?

Link glances back at his house, dead and cold and bleak. He thinks about the comfort of his perfect system and the feeling of purity as he purged himself of the food that he loved and hated so much. He thinks about the good times with his family and how he’ll never get to live those days again. 

Then he looks at Rhett, his last beacon of stability. Rhett, who never gave up on him, would never leave him.

Things would get worse before they got better. There were going to be needles which Link hates, and invasive questions, and living in a place where there were room searches and lightbulbs in safety cages. Twenty-four-seven rotating shifts of employees who won’t let him go to the bathroom without a monitor and make him weigh himself every week, and Rhett can only drive up to visit him on weekends.

Rhett squeezes his hand and when Link stares right into his eyes he feels that maybe, someday, he’ll wake up thinking there’s something to live for again.

“I’m ready,” Link practically whispers, then draws upon the reserve of strength that Rhett’s presence has helped him find. His voice comes out strong and loud. “I’m ready. Let’s go.”

**Author's Note:**

> Your feedback is appreciated as always!  
> For resources and online support forums regarding eating disorders, particularly bulimia, you can message me (j-lyn) on tumblr at any time. I'm available and willing to talk via email most evenings as well.


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